The Kraken Sea

by E. Catherine Tobler

  They passed over rails set into the streets and through gates of stone with tiled roofs. The vehicle wound paths Jackson had no hope to following, gliding up to one of many ordinary buildings along another straight street. Trees grew from grates in the sidewalk, golden leaves on stretching branches unable to conceal the stone letters above the building’s entry. MACQUARIE’S was spelled out above an archway supported by leaf-spewing Corinthian columns. A bronze lion sat to either side of the entry, manes and claws of curled metal.

  Jackson clutched his suitcase as Cressida and her man made for the doors. He followed, but stopped when the hem of his coat caught on a lion. He turned to free it only to discover the hem was clutched between the lion’s teeth. Jackson stared and so did the lion, from dull bronze eyes. Patina had begun to streak its nose and paws, the former wrinkling as the teeth dug into Jackson’s coat.

  “Let go,” Jackson said and pulled, but was rewarded with the sound of tearing wool. Jackson eased his hold, but didn’t entirely let go. He glanced at Cressida and her man; they only watched. Jackson crouched, his coat large enough to allow him to get nearly nose to nose to the beast. Jackson stared, unblinking.

  The lion didn’t release the coat, but instead drew in a breath that sounded like wind through a drainpipe. Jackson let the lion smell him until bit by bit, the grip on his coat eased. The second lion had moved from its place at the other column, to nudge its head under Jackson’s arm and take a breath of him there, too. The first lion spat Jackson’s coat out — it was not wet, but warm from a broad bronze tongue. The lions moved around Jackson in tandem, knocking their heads into him, dragging their maws along his sleeves.

  “They seem to approve.”

  Jackson watched the lions twine into Cressida’s skirts, around her legs, before they withdrew and settled into their places at the base of each column.

  Jackson smoothed his coat down by habit. “If they didn’t?”

  The tilt of Cressida’s smile told him all he needed to know: if the lions hadn’t approved, he wouldn’t have entered the building at all. He stepped inside holding his battered suitcase as he passed through the mahogany and etched glass doors, and followed Cressida through the ordinary hall stretching out before them. The floor gleamed in a black and white checkerboard pattern, but the walls were plain, bare, and Jackson had trouble masking his disappointment. The metallic scent of the lions clung to him, but this was the only evidence anything extraordinary had happened, at least until the hall spat them into a central space that made Jackson gape.

  The narrow clasp of the hall gave rise to an atrium of five floors. Stairs crisscrossed one end while a metal lift beckoned from the center of the atrium. Everything was golden wood and filigreed ironwork until the ceiling of glass panels. From this brilliant sheet, the light of the day spilled through five stories, revealing plants and trees growing up the ironwork. Something in the leaves moved, peered down, then fluttered into shadow.

  “Welcome home,” Cressida said, and her hand slid over his shoulder much the way Sister Jerome Grace’s had.

  “Y-you live here?” Jackson turned in a slow circle, to take in the stairs, the interior balconies wrapping the central space, the many doors leading to many rooms. The doors reminded him of the foundling hospital, but he had the sense there were no other children here. What possible need could she have of him?

  Cressida smiled her smile again. “And so do you, little Jackson. Welcome to Macquarie’s. Quiet now, but she picks up during the nighttime. Foster.” She nodded to her Chinese driver who strode back to her side, hands clasped inside the loose sleeves of his tunic once more. “See that Jackson picks him a good room, then bring him down for a meal. He’s nearly all bones.”

  Foster escorted him in the metal lift, all the way to the top floor as Jackson commanded. They rode in a comfortable silence. The Chinaman smelled like metal and Jackson wondered if it came from handling the vehicle so much.

  Jackson went where he would; Foster didn’t stop him from roaming. Some of the doors were locked, so Jackson presumed them already occupied, but most were open, the rooms finely ornamented and ready for whoever would stay there. It was a corner room Jackson took because from its windows and fire escape, he knew he could make it to the roof. Could climb up and watch the sky and maybe there would be pigeons.

  He wasn’t comfortable leaving his suitcase or taking off his coat, but he did both, telling Foster to wait in the hall while he did. Foster slipped into place beside the door as Jackson closed it, locked it, and made a slow circle in the room now his. Bed, wardrobe, nothing out of the ordinary. He supposed it was the windows that struck him most of all. They provided a view of the distant ocean and sky, and made him think of the possibility that existed outside this room. It was strange, a space he wouldn’t have to share with anyone — this called to mind the hospital, the sisters, and his heart turned over at the memories, because he came back to the Chicago sideshow, to the taste of that man against his teeth. He came back to the sister’s hand opening under her scissors and he wanted to be cut open. To see what was inside.

  Jackson was mindful of the room’s condition and feeling like a trespasser, he hung his coat on the provided rack and slipped his suitcase under the bed, hiding it with a flip of the bedspread. He didn’t allow himself time to become any more used to the room. He had no key for the door until Foster produced a ring of them and found the proper one for the lock. It was iron, black enough to smudge a person’s hand. Foster offered it up without a word after locking the door. Jackson slipped it into his pocket and the entire way to find food, his hand curled around it, tight. It became immediately his.

  Foster took him through the lower level of the building, through corridors opening into countless secret spaces. It was a city all its own, wood paneled walls and richly carpeted floors, and by the time they reached Cressida, Jackson could not say how many twists and turns they had taken. It was a maze of unfathomed delights. As golden as the outer rooms had been, the room Foster took him to was dark, the wood having been polished so well Jackson could see his own watery reflection in the panels as he crossed to Cressida’s table.

  Gold and crimson fabric spilled from the ceiling, clouds of billowing ivory suspended from chandeliers of spun sugar. The chandeliers held hundreds upon hundreds of candles, the uprush of heat keeping the ceiling in constant motion. Ivory linen and silver spread across Cressida’s table, a small mountain of pearlescent candles in its center spilling more golden light.

  “Come.”

  Cressida patted the bench beside her. She had removed her stole to reveal the simple black of the dress she wore, the color of mourning even if the skirts were striped with gray. Jackson sat, but his gaze didn’t settle. He took in the long bar of glass and gold across the room, a mirror set along its backside to reflect the entire room. An equally long stage for performers twined amid the tables. It wasn’t straight, but wove its way like a snake through the room. Its wood was a shade darker than the walls and floor, giving the impression of shadow, whereas the bar shone like the sun under all the candles.

  “You’re of an age I won’t keep you from any place in Macquarie’s,” Cressida said. She reached for a bottle and poured the dark and bubbling contents into the glass before him. It looked like soda water, but was dark as pitch, and when Jackson sipped, it was surprisingly sweet. “But you won’t drink while working, and you won’t touch the ladies.”

  Jackson set his glass down. “Ladies, ma’am?”

  As if they had been prompted by his words, the draped fabric at the far end of the stage fluttered and parted, allowing a trio of young women into the room. They didn’t look at Cressida or Jackson, only set to going through the motions of their performance. They were dressed in nearly nothing, what little they wore held on by breath alone, gleaming silver strings and trails of translucent fabric concealing a curve of flesh only to reveal it again each time they moved. Far worse than these glimpses of flesh was the flesh itself. It was translucent like the fa
bric, exposing shadows of corded muscles beneath the skin. Up the line of a spine, he could almost see bones; the women looked strangely manufactured, skin pulling taut over shelled rib cages as one body bowed into another.

  Jackson fought to find a proper breath. “Work, ma’am?”

  Plates heaped with food appeared at the table, brought by men and women who looked like Foster with their loose tunics and narrowed eyes. Jackson recognized only one meal on the table, roasted rabbit dredged in flour and butter so it would crisp. His mouth watered and Cressida nodded, silently telling him not to wait. Other plates were added, some manner of bird in jelly, pickled beets, parsnips fried in molasses. Jackson served himself, filling up the empty plate Foster offered him. He held his fork like a shovel, molasses coating his tongue in a tarry slick as he poked the parsnips down.

  “I wanted to give you a home, little Jackson, but everyone works for what they have.” Cressida’s eyes drifted to the three young women who moved silently on the stage. “Everyone has a part to play. I heard of your unique gifts from the sisters and knew you would come here and be part of this family.”

  Jackson coughed, a wedge of rabbit lodged in his throat. “G-gifts, ma’ —”

  “Don’t you goddamn ma’am me again,” she said gently, though her eyes betrayed her anger in the way they snapped from the girls and landed on him. “You will not be coy in this place. You have hidden yourself away, I know — it’s the way of your kind in this world, when you find yourself in a place you don’t fit, a place that don’t rightly hold you, but here …” She spread her hands to encompass more than the room. Jackson thought she meant the entire city. “That doesn't have to be the case. You are yourself here, only that. None shall harm you.”

  The women slipped in and out of the drapes, showing a brief length of translucent leg before allowing the fabric to swallow it back up. Jackson’s grip tightened on his fork and it exploded from his grasp, skewering the mountain of candles in the center of the table. His hand was no longer a hand, but an abrupt mass of writhing coils. He swallowed hard and flushed, but Cressida looked at him with pride alone.

  §

  The first problem with leaving his room via the window was the girl on the fire escape.

  Jackson stared at her through the pane of glass, his hand poised on the latch. His meal settled into his stomach in a hard lump and his mouth grew dry, like he hadn’t consumed all of the sweet soda Cressida kept pouring. His arms shook with fine tremors — he wasn’t cold or fearful at the sight of the girl, only confused.

  When at last he convinced his normal fingers to turn the latch, he pulled the window open, to stare at the girl who had stared at him outside the wreck of the Chicago sideshow.

  She was maybe his age and the meeting held a strange clarity, one he would think on for years to come. She appeared drawn in sharply inked lines; he could see everything there was to see as if noonday sun shone down, but it was dark, the sky moonless but for her own pale and rounded face. Although the girl wore trousers now — outrageous! — and her hair was drawn into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, Jackson knew he wouldn’t forget those black eyes.

  “Five stories up,” he said. Had she pulled the fire escape ladder down and climbed up? It was the most reasonable thought, but then again, there was a girl. On his fire escape. What was reasonable?

  Dust coated her trousers and her hands rested filthy on the metal. She didn’t wear a jacket despite the cool air of the night, only what looked like a man’s shirt, buttoned up to her neck. The buttons glowed and wavered, like pearls under water. Jackson dashed a hand over his eyes and she came back into solid focus. She said nothing.

  The tremors in his arms moved through his chest, into hips and legs, and he couldn’t stand still. Jackson pulled the other side of the window open and hoisted himself onto the fire escape. The girl sat up, but did not say a word. Jackson smiled at her, the structure of his mouth slipping to reveal more tooth than a person rightly should. This close, she smelled like the sweat of climbing over roofs and deeper down, almond soap. Not at all the flowers and pixies he imagined. She smelled like leather too and when at last she drew herself to a height even with him, he saw the coil of leather at her waist. A whip.

  “You ain’t no regular girl,” he said, and then nodded up, to the starry sky above. “C’mon.”

  He heard her climbing the ladder after him, boots on rung after rung until they stood side by side on the roof. She wasn’t even breathing hard and while Jackson was, he didn’t care. Up here, everything was clear, like the skins of Macquarie’s dancers. She walked past him, like she’d been up here a dozen times before, confident and true, so Jackson followed and eventually bypassed her, to stare through the glass and iron panels making up the sunroof. He could see down into the bottom of the building.

  “You ain’t no regular boy. The Widow adopt you?”

  It wasn’t the voice he expected her to have. Just like she didn’t smell like flowers or fancy, she didn’t sound like a lady and he liked that about her. He straightened to watch her prowl around him. She looked at him and not the roof, eyes constantly assessing. He had no coat, nor certainly any weapon, only the strange assuredness that shot through him the way the dark drink had. His chin came up and if he’d had fur, it might have bristled.

  “What of it? What do you know of Cressida anyhow?”

  Her mouth split in a smile, the first expression he’d seen of her other than intent study. She stopped pacing, hands resting on her hips. There was no moon, but Jackson would have sworn (and would swear years later) there was, because there was a light in the girl’s eyes, milky and liquid, a thing he could drink down and not regret.

  “You want to be careful in a place like this,” she said. Her left hand fingered her whip. “A woman like the Widow ain’t no normal woman, if you take my meaning.” Her eyes narrowed, a slight fluctuation to the light in her eyes. “No reason she’d want a normal boy …”

  Her voice trailed off and she closed the distance between them. Jackson thought she was going to kiss him — he could almost taste her mouth and not having been kissed, he could only imagine the things it might taste like. Flowers were right out, he decided. Maybe she tasted like bubbling soda, like the brown almond cookie he’d had after. Crisp and sweet.

  She didn’t kiss him. Her hand closed on his chin, dirty fingers pressing into his skin. Her lips parted but there was no kiss, no word, only a soft breath. When she exhaled, it was hard and through her nose. Jackson had once seen a group of card players; she reminded him of them, a man vexed with the choices before him.

  “This city is both big and small,” she said, keeping hold of him. “You don’t have to go far to find entertainments more pleasing than Macquarie’s.”

  If she been a dancer, she might have swayed her hips to tempt him even more than she already had by simply being. She stood stock still, hand clenching his cheek, fingers on her whip. His body shifted, began to bleed into what he wanted to be. He pulled himself back from that edge.

  “Bell’s is two blocks north, other side of the street from the bakery.”

  With that, she released him. She took a step back and Jackson sucked in a breath. She smelled like sweat and soap, even as she walked away. She walked backwards, keeping her eyes on him all the while. As if she had walked this roof a dozen times. Had they been on this roof before? Jackson could not remember, did not want to remember, because on its own this moment was sweet and he thought he was flying. The sky was clear and cold and he could feel her hand wrapped in his own. He did not move after her, for fear she would evaporate.

  “My name is Jackson,” he said before she got too far away.

  She didn’t offer her name, only turned from him and ran. She didn’t evaporate, but moved so quickly to the far edge of the building she might as well have. Jackson’s eyes widened — time slowed, she was going to run out of building, she was going to —

  She slipped over the edge and was gone. As if a hot iron had been pla
ced against his backside, he ran. The other edge of the building had a fire escape too — his heart lodged in his throat as he leaned there, hands having dissolved to coils whipping against the roof edge. But the fire escape stood empty. There was no sign of her there, nor was she shattered in the street. She was simply gone.

  Life at Macquarie’s settled into a routine. Cressida often dispatched him with Foster, but from there, Jackson could have no expectations. Each day was never like another. As much as he enjoyed the environment, he ached to leave it, if only to go north and discover Bell’s and the black-eyed girl. Their path of errands never took them north and he asked Foster why that was, as they left Macquarie’s to restock staples for the pantry.

  Foster hesitated. Jackson had no doubt the man worked within a certain set of guidelines — much as Cressida had told him not to touch the ladies or drink while working. Foster had been here for five years. He wouldn’t say where his family had gone, but Jackson suspected they had been deported, along with countless other Chinese.

  “Northways is not our territory,” Foster said, hoisting a sack of flour over his shoulder as they made to leave the store. His voice was nearly melodic, but it dropped lower now. The storekeeper gave them a nod as they left — everyone was always exceedingly cordial when they came for supplies. Jackson knew Cressida was a woman of wealth and means, but didn’t know how she had come to be such.

  “Not our territory.” Jackson contemplated that, as they placed the sacks in the back of the automobile. “Does that mean we can’t go there? Ever?” He found the idea of territories immediately familiar, a leftover from the foundling hospital. It was reasonable for the kids to establish their boundaries in such a way, obliterating anyone who dared venture inside lines they had not drawn.

  “Business might take us there.” Foster slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Jackson to sit. “But it typically will not. A person should have all they need inside their own space, isn’t it so? Everything we need truly exists within the walls of Macquarie’s and Cressida gives us all we require. Our needs do not expand northways.”